


basilisk's gaze

by ewelinakl



Series: a modern bestiary [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Geralt meets Jaskier's mum, Jaskier is half-Polish because i say so, M/M, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Slavic folk wisdom, Yen is still not over Geralt, gratuitious Polish/Kaszub folklore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22421608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewelinakl/pseuds/ewelinakl
Summary: Geralt might not be a streetwise Hercules, but he makes Jaskier feel safe and calm, even when everything goes wrong.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: a modern bestiary [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608940
Comments: 14
Kudos: 214





	basilisk's gaze

"Pictures, Jaskier! Where are the pictures?"

"Wait! I'm looking for a good one!"

"Just show me whatever, Jesus Christ." Essi rolled her eyes, trying to peek over his shoulder. "Holy fuck," she gasped, reaching out to tap at one of the pictures on Geralt's Instagram. He was shirtless and barefoot in it, standing at an angle that really showcased all of his best attributes. "How did you land a guy like this?"

Jaskier grinned, putting his phone away. To be fair, he had no idea how he did that. Or else — he knew how it started, but had no clue why it continued. It's been over three weeks since they met and they’ve been seeing each other  _ a lot _ . Geralt didn't seem bored or overwhelmed by Jaskier's excessive talking, he was kind and gentle, if a little rough around the edges, he was smart and funny, and more than good-looking. Why did a guy like this stick with a walking disaster that was Jaskier was a mystery yet to be solved.

"You like him," Essi noted, drawing out sounds to give it a mocking ring. Jaskier shrugged, trying to make it seem casual, but his face burned. "So when do I get to meet him?" Essi asked, grinning.

Jaskier almost choked on his breath. Though, three weeks of dating was objectively enough to start introducing his boyfriend — were they boyfriends? they hadn’t spoken about this — to his friends, wasn’t it?

“I, uh— I don’t know, Friday, maybe? But I need to ask him first, maybe he’s got some plans, or—”

“Okay, talk to him and let me know when and where,” Essi said, mercifully interrupting his stuttering. “Can’t wait to meet that superman of yours.”

*

Unlike Jaskier, Geralt wasn’t freaking out about everything. He agreed instantly when Jaskier suggested a few glasses of wine at his place on Friday evening, and didn’t back away when Jaskier mentioned that his best friend would be coming, too. He only asked if it was the half-Danish, half-Polish friend Jaskier had told him about. (Which was a very surprising and very touching question, because it meant Geralt had been actually  _ listening  _ to him, paying attention to whatever nonsense was falling out of his mouth in large quantities. Jaskier was used to people just tuning him out most of the time.)

But even though Geralt had been extremely chill about the whole idea of meeting Essi, Jaskier was still very much in a full-blown panic-mode, when he heard the doorbell on Friday evening. Part of the panic might’ve been due to the fact that his hair was still wet and he was half-dressed when he opened the door for Geralt.

“Hey,” Geralt said, leaning in to kiss him and Jaskier just melted into it, closing his fists on the rough leather of Geralt’s jacket, pressing against his witcher, calming down in an instant.

“Hey yourself,” he replied, smiling, pressing his forehead against Geralt’s.

It was weird how serene and safe this man made him feel. He might be freaking the fuck out one moment, but as soon as Geralt touched him, his mind just cleared. It felt like some sort of magic, really.

“Essi’s not there yet,” he said. “She got stuck in the traffic. That’s what you get for being posh and taking an uber, when the subway is just three minutes away.”

Geralt chuckled. “Gonna keep that in mind. I came on Roach, is that posh, too?”

Roach was probably the single most ridiculous name for a monster of a motorbike and Jaskier had no idea how or why Geralt decided on that. “No, that’s not posh,” he said, raising his brows. “That’s just fucking weird.”

“Fair enough.” Geralt laughed, the sound of it covering Jaskier’s arms in goosebumps.

“Well, make yourself at home, I gotta finish getting dressed,” Jaskier said, heading to his bedroom. Geralt knew his place by now, he could manage on his own for a few minutes.

He was trying on a third blazer, when he heard his phone ringing from the living room. “Geralt? Can you check my phone and tell me who’s calling?” he yelled.

He heard Geralt moving and then a moment of heavy silence. So it wasn’t Essi. It was Jaskier’s dearest papa.

“It’s your father,” Geralt said, his voice low and dark.

The phone went silent just as Jaskier let out a deep, tired sigh. He’s been trying to avoid it all day, but turned out that the world hated him, after all. He didn’t like the combination of the shirt and the blazer he had on, but it didn’t matter anymore. The phone rang again, making it clear that his father wasn’t going to give up.

Jaskier walked into the living room, painfully aware that his stride was too brisk, his brow furrowed, and his nails digging deep into the inside of his palms. He swiped across the screen, answering the call and putting his father on the speaker. Geralt would hear everything anyway, Jaskier’s father had never learned how to speak like a normal person.

“Finally,” he said. “I’ve been calling you all day.”

“You called twice,” Jaskier replied, sitting down on the sofa, not looking at Geralt. “I was busy.”

Father scoffed. “Busy doing what? Being a musician or whoring yourself out?”

“I thought you considered those one and the same.” There wasn’t even any bite to it, Jaskier was just fucking tired of having to deal with this man.

“I’ll have you know that your tomfoolery with Markus did not ruin my friendship with his father, if that’s what you were trying to achieve. In fact, we’ve bonded over it.”

“I’m very glad to hear that your friendship is so resilient,” Jaskier said. “What do you want from me?”

“Your mother’s coming out on Monday. I thought I’d give you heads up.”

“How generous of you.” Jaskier snorted. “Don’t worry, I’ll pick her up and she’s gonna stay with me.”

“Great. That’s all I had to say.”

“Excellent.”

Jaskier ended the call, letting out another deep sigh and falling back against the sofa. Geralt was watching him, he could feel the weight of this gaze and he couldn’t stand it, so he hid his face in his hands.

Geralt still came to him, leaving a little bit of space at first, only to pull Jaskier into his arms after a moment, stroking his hair and nuzzling his temple.

“God, I hate him so much,” Jaskier said, weakly. “He called me just because last time I told him I’m gonna sue him, if he tries to keep mama from seeing me ever again. He only called because he doesn’t want to lose his fucking money.”

Geralt hugged him tighter, murmuring something soft into Jaskier’s ear, and Jaskier really wanted to cry. This was supposed to be a nice evening with his (probably?) boyfriend and best friend, and his fucking father just had to ruin it, as he always did with everything.

“That room,” Geralt said out of the blue, lifting a hand to wave it towards the door. “It’s your mom’s, isn’t it?”

Jaskier showed him around there as well, the first time Geralt came over. He might’ve called it a guest-room, which wasn’t technically incorrect, but wasn’t true either.

“Yeah,” he said. “She chose the decor,” he added. “That’s why it’s a little different than the rest of my place.”

“But it works,” Geralt said. “I mean, it’s a bit different, but not so different that it doesn’t make sense here, you know what I mean? There are some things there that just feel a lot like you.”

Jaskier smiled against Geralt's neck. "I am a lot like her," he said. "Artsy, and stuff."

_ Soft _ . Too soft for this world. Too soft for his father.

He almost sighed in relief when the doorbell rang. He needed a change. He needed action. He needed something to distract Geralt, to save him from Geralt’s sticky compassion that was sweet and touching, but in a suffocating way.

“Hi, darling,” Essi said, throwing her arms around his neck as soon as he opened the door. “I’m so sorry I’m late, I should’ve taken the sub, I know.”

Jaskier only hugged her tightly in response. He was so glad she came. Essi hung her coat and kicked off her shoes, taking her slippers out of the shoe locker, that little Polish habit they shared.

“Well, hello, streetwise Hercules,” Essi said, eyeing Geralt with a little smirk.

“I wouldn’t call myself streetwise, and my name’s Geralt, but it’s nice to meet you, too,” Geralt said, extending a hand. “It’s Essi, isn’t it?”

“Essi it is,” Essi agreed, shaking his hand. “Gotta admit, you look even better in person than on Instagram. Pretty impressive, especially those biceps.”

“Thanks.” Geralt raised his brows, glancing at Jaskier from the corner of his eye.

Jaskier glared at Essi.  _ I’m gonna fucking kill you _ , he mouthed in her direction. “So, what do you want to drink?” he asked to change the topic and twirling around towards the kitchen. “I have a really good riesling and a muscadet in the fridge? There’s still a bottle of that chianti we bought last time, too, but, ugh.” He winced.

Essi laughed, following him into the kitchen. Geralt followed, too, Jaskier heard his heavy steps making the floor creak softly.

“Yeah, I think I’m not gonna touch red wine for a while after watching you puke last time,” Essi said. “Muscadet sounds good to me, as long as it’s not sur lie.”

Jaskier shuddered. “Ugh, of course it’s not, I hate that yeasty aftertaste,” he said. “Geralt? Do you want muscadet, too, or should I open something else?”

Geralt smiled, leaning against the wall. “I know jackshit about wine,” he said. “Give me whatever you guys will be having and I’ll be good.”

“You’re more of a vodka person?” Essi asked, raising a brow. “Jaskier, złociutki, you’ve got some vodka?”

Jaskier sighed, opening the freezer. Sure he had vodka, he  _ was  _ half-Polish, after all, even if he got drunk embarrassingly fast. “There’s czysta,” he said, closing the freezer and opening the fridge. “I have some of that żubrówka left, too. A bottle of żołądkowa. And, oh.” He glanced at Essi, who grinned, immediately knowing what he just found. “There’s a bottle of śliwowica, too.”

“What do you say, Geralt?” Essi said, raising her brows in a silent dare. “Wanna try the liquid power?”

Geralt laughed quietly, the sound of it covering Jaskier’s arms in goosebumps once again. “Sure, why not,” he said.

Essi cracked her knuckles, still grinning, and Jaskier already felt sorry for Geralt, who didn’t have years of experience and centuries-worth of Slavic common knowledge imposed on him by the older generations. He was going to suffer and there was no way of saving him, because he was stupidly proud and couldn’t refuse a drinking challenge coming from a girl half his size. Well, he was going to learn not to mess with Essi Daven the hard way.

Jaskier took out the śliwowica, while Essi took the glasses. She deposited them safely on the coffee table in the living room and went back to the kitchen, only to return with a tall jug of water. That sneaky evil thing, that merciless little witch. Jaskier sent her a pleading look. He’s known Geralt for three weeks, he wasn’t sure if Geralt was emotionally ready for an intense bonding session over the toilet, where Jaskier would hold his hair back while Geralt puked. Essi pulled her mouth into a very smug smirk.

“Alright,” she said, pouring each of them a shot of śliwowica, which she then downed in one go. Geralt did the same and tried his best to not start coughing, making Essi laugh. Jaskier brought his glass to his lips, just to drink a tiny little sip. He had to stay relatively sober to take care of Geralt. “So, Jaskier, słonko ty moje, tell me what’s wrong,” Essi asked, pouring herself and Geralt another glass.

Jaskier sighed, shrugging. “Nothing much, my dearest papa called and fucked up my mood. You know, the usual.”

“Ugh, fuck that guy, seriously.” Essi winced, raising her glass. “You’re lucky you’ll never have to meet him,” she said to Geralt. “Let’s drink to that.” To Jaskier’s horror, Geralt did, like an absolute fool. Essi grinned when he winced. “What did the old fucker want?” she asked, turning back to Jaskier.

“Mama’s going out on Monday,” Jaskier said softly, smiling.

“That’s amazing!” Essi beamed. “I haven’t seen her in such a long time, oh my god. I start work late on Tuesday, let’s have a nice brunch together, huh? I missed her so much.” Jaskier nodded, biting his lip. He only had a small sip of śliwowica and he was already getting weirdly emotional. “You need to meet his mama,” Essi said to Geralt, “she’s the sweetest, loveliest person on earth.”

“I’d love to,” Geralt said to that.

Jaskier’s heart stilled for a second as he turned his face to Geralt, who was already a little too pink over the cheeks, but not drunk yet. “You want to?” Jaskier asked, his voice ridiculously small and strangled, because suddenly he was on the verge of tears.

“Yeah,” Geralt said, the corners of his lips twitching as if he wanted to smile, but tried very hard not to. “Of course I want to.”

Jaskier bit his lip, blinking away the tears that filled his eyes. Damn his overly emotional nature, his tendency to just cry for no damn reason, and damn the fucking śliwowica that made him even more of a mess than he usually was with just the spicy, summery scent of it. He downed what was left in his glass — which was way too much — and shuddered.

“Alright,” he said, nodding. “Okay.”

Essi chuckled, pouring some more śliwowica into their glasses. “Let’s drink to that, as well.”

Geralt did. Jaskier abstained. He’d had enough to turn tomato-red. From now on, he was only going to monitor the situation. Maybe have a cup of tea in an hour or so.

They talked about everything and anything — work, music, languages, books, families, travels, politics, whatever came to their minds. Essi kept refilling Geralt’s glass and Geralt kept drinking śliwowica, following it with large amounts of water, which only made him more drunk. Essi grinned devilishly and Jaskier chuckled, because he loved her and that evil smile of hers, even when he felt deeply sorry for poor Geralt who was going to suffer all night and all day tomorrow.

When Essi’s uber arrived, it was almost two in the morning and even she was slurring by then. Jaskier walked her to the car, making sure it was the driver they both knew and trusted and not some stranger. Essi hugged him and kissed him on both cheeks before crawling onto the backseat.

“Keep him, Jaskier, he’s so precious,” she mumbled, head falling back against the edge of the seat. “Good think he’s your boyfriend, or I’d fall hopelessly in love with him, I swear to god. Those  _ biceps _ .”

Jaskier laughed, kissing her on the forehead and closing her seatbelt. “I’m gonna do my best, Poppet,” he said. “I really am.”

When he returned to his apartment, he found Geralt sprawled on top of his bed like a starfish, still fully dressed, staring blankly into the ceiling. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he told Jaskier.

Jaskier sighed. Yeah, that was very likely considering how much of śliwowica Geralt drunk and the fact that he followed each shot with a glass of water, which was the worst thing to do when drinking heavy spirits.

“Poor witcher,” Jaskier said, taking Geralt by the hands and trying to hoist him up to a sitting position. Geralt produced a low rumble, closing his eyes, making no effort to help Jaskier. “Come on, witcher,” Jaskier said, “you need a shower.”

Geralt sighed, sitting up and immediately covering his mouth with a hand. Jaskier tried not to laugh. He’d been in this state before, he knew it wasn’t funny at all.

It took them solid ten minutes to finally reach the bathroom and then another five to get Geralt undressed. When Jaskier finally got him into the bathtub, he started with lukewarm water, that he soon switched to ice-cold. Geralt gasped, then gurgled, then began to swear, shaking his head, sending drops of water flying all over the bathroom. Jaskier poured the freezing water all over Geralt’s head and upper body, until he decided that his (probably?) boyfriend sounded decidedly more sober. Then he closed the tap and handed Geralt the biggest and fluffiest towel he owned.

Geralt wrapped it around his head and shoulders, looking at Jaskier with a mixture of shock and hurt. “Why would you—? Why did you—?” he gasped.

Jaskier murmured something soothing, sitting Geralt down at the edge of the bathtub and toweling his hair, until it was no longer dripping wet. He blow-dried it, ignoring Geralt’s protests, then wrapped his witcher in the biggest t-shirt and loosest pair of joggers he owned, which were still too short and too tight on Geralt. He needed to tell him to bring some pj’s next time.

“It does feel better now, though, doesn’t it?” Jaskier said, smirking once they got into the kitchen and he made Geralt a mixture of peppermint, rockrose and nettle. Geralt winced as he drank it, but finished the entire cup within minutes.

“Hm,” he grunted in response.

Jaskier only chuckled.

*

His mama looked so pretty when she picked her up from the hospital — bright blue eyes and golden curls framing her heart-shaped face, a pale-lilac coat and plum-coloured gloves, dainty laced boots and a white dress. She hugged Jaskier so tightly his ribs almost hurt. Her smile was radiant and so sweet Jaskier couldn’t help but tear up when he saw it. She wiped his tears away.

She spoke to him in rapid-fire Polish he could barely follow, but tried his best to understand as much as possible, only asking for a translation two or three times, when she used a word he’d never heard before. His Polish was awful, it always had been, he didn’t get lessons like Essi did because his father decided that he should rather learn something useful like French or Latin, than some  _ pointless crackling sounds _ . Jaskier tried his best to learn on his own, borrowing Essi’s notes and textbooks, finding exercises and tutors online, but with all the extracurricular classes his father forced him to attend, he’d never had enough time to master Polish on a level that would satisfy him.

They did everything mama loved to do — went on long walks around the parks, took a train to the seaside, had crepes for brunch with Essi, visited each and every museum, including those they’d seen dozens of times already, they went to flea markets and antique bookstores, watched old movies, danced to old Polish songs, shopped for fabrics and colourful paper and made their little arts and crafts projects. Jaskier played her some of his new songs and then they sang some of the old Polish lullabies together, because somehow Jaskier still remembered every single word, every melody. He told her of Geralt, but never mentioned Markus. She listened, smiling, stroking his hair that used to be yellow like buttercups but now was a dusty, dirty blond. She still called him her Jaskier, though, always Jaskier, never Julian, and he loved her so much for this and for everything else, for being so sweet and strong, so resilient and brave, so beautiful and loving. And though the doctors told him she was in only partial remission, he still hoped that maybe this time she could stay out with him for longer, for months, maybe even years. She took her pills, slept well, ate enough, and tried her best to stay with him for as long as she could, and it made him love her even more.

It was a Thursday evening, when Geralt came over. Either he’d managed to go home after work, or changed in the office, because he wore his usual biker’s attire, all leather and silver, not the corporate suit (Jaskier had no idea what exactly his job as a professional negotiator entailed, but he knew it required a suit). Jaskier was glad, for some reason he thought it better that mama would meet the  _ real _ Geralt, with his heavy boots and leather pants, his gruff voice and all the tenderness he hid behind that.

“You’re that witcher,” mama said, smiling, reaching out. Geralt took her hand, so small and pale against his, and brushed the back of it with his lips.

“That’s me,” he said, smiling. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

“Izabela,” mama said.

“Geralt,” Geralt said, bowing his head.

Jaskier had feared the atmosphere would be tense and awkward, but mama poured them all tea from the old samovar that had been in her family ever since before the wars, way before they had to flee from the Nazis and Soviets, and began to ask Geralt questions, not about things parents usually asked their children’s partners, but about witchers and bačas, ghosts and monsters, and the various ways of getting rid of them. She told Geralt of devils and other apparitions that plagued the forests and lakes of the land she came from, she told him of stolems turned into stone circles and vescis who came back from the dead and killed their families one by one.

Jaskier knew all of these stories, he’d heard them so many times when he was still a yellow-haired boy, covered up to his eyes, gasping when the clever sexton beheaded the vesci and then buried them again with the head left between their legs, leaving some poppy seeds and a page of the prayer-book in the coffin for a good measure. His father hated it when mama told him of those supernatural creatures shaping the landscape of her homeland and the sturdy, fierce Kaszubs that populated it. His father hated the pagan Polish superstitions and the crackling Polish language, and when Jaskier was still a yellow-haired boy, he couldn’t understand why he married mama if he couldn’t stand the soft murmur of her words and the eerie, dark tales her ancestors brought from the old country. He understood only when he learned that when mama’s ancestors left their country they carried more than the eerie tales and an old samovar with them, that they traveled west burdened with the Kaszub gold — with amber in all colours, shapes and sizes.

Mama spun her tales, her accent alone painting the picture of tall pines and devil’s stones scattered across the hills of Kaszub land. Geralt scribbled some notes, saying he had to tell his father about it, and Jaskier had to hold back tears because it was so sweet of him, so nice and thoughtful. Geralt smiled to him from time to time, holding his hand under the coffee table and Jaskier pressed his cheek against his arm, feeling so good and safe, the way he always wished he could feel in his childhood home, surrounded by people that cared about him and that he cared for, just warm and comfortable, happy.

*

Everything had been good — perfect, almost — for weeks and Jaskier was so close to believing that this time it could really stay like this, that he could make it all work.

And then his father called.

Jaskier didn’t answer the phone and this alone told mama who called. She paled a little, stilled, eyes glassy and huge all of a sudden. And Jaskier hated his father so fucking much for always ruining everything, for always sending mama back to the hospital, one way or another.

Jaskier still held on to hope because mama came back to reality pretty soon, she took her medication, went out to have lunch with Jaskier and Geralt, and she seemed almost okay, almost as happy and calm as she was before. But Jaskier could see and hear the anxiety and paranoia creeping closer, and he knew that mama could only keep it together for so long.

"I think I should go back to the hospital," she said softly, stirring her coffee. Geralt looked at her and then Jaskier, clearly surprised. Jaskier only sighed. "Could you drive me there?" mama asked.

And though his heart was breaking, he took her hand and smiled. "Of course," he said. "Will you come with us, Geralt?" he asked, trying so hard to conceal the note of desperation in it, to cover the unspoken  _ I need you to come with me, I need you to keep me from falling apart _ that followed.

"Sure," Geralt said, as if he heard anyway.

So they finished their coffee, paid the bill, and went back to Jaskier’s place so that mama could pack her suitcase, all of her dresses and nightgowns, her amber jewellery, her books of Polish poetry and the music sheets of Chopin’s mazurkas that she used to play for Jaskier when he was still a yellow-haired buttercup. He watched her pack every item with mechanical precision, the way she packed it every few months for so many years, and he tried so hard to not cry and make her feel guilty, he tried so hard to be proud of her for recognising when she needed help, because she used to struggle so much with it back in the day, but it was so hard because he loved her too much and he selfishly wanted to keep her, make her stay with him.

They were silent as they drove to the hospital — Geralt in the front seat, next to the confused driver, Jaskier and his mama at the back, holding hands without looking at each other, because they both felt heartbroken and guilty, because they were so alike and understood each other too well.

Before they parted at the hospital’s glass door, Jaskier hugged her tightly, not wanting to ever let go, and she stroked his hair, murmuring sweet Polish words into his ear. Then she turned to Geralt, opening her arms to embrace him as well, and Geralt let her, bending almost in half.

“Take care of my boy, witcher,” mama said.

“I will,” Geralt said. “He’s safe with me.”

And Jaskier had to bite so hard into his lip it almost bled, otherwise he’d just break into tears right there, before mama walked into the hungry mouth of the hospital, waving to them, tiny and perfect, like a little flower blooming amid hard snow. Jaskier watched her, slowly disappearing between all the people crowding the hospital lobby, melting into the whirlwind of white and blue worn by the personnel, and the rainbow of patients and their visitors. Then he let his eyes close, letting out a shaky, teary sigh, his shoulders jerking in a sob he tried to suppress.

Geralt took him in his arms without saying a word and Jaskier was grateful for this silence and the broad chest that hid his tears from everyone around. He cried, twisting his fists into Geralt’s shirt, and he felt so small and helpless, so weak and pathetic, but somehow safe, somehow sure that he could afford to let Geralt see his underbelly, sure that Geralt wouldn’t use it against him.

“Let’s walk to the subway,” he suggested after a long while, stepping back and wiping away the heavy tears hanging from his eyelashes.

“It’s far away from here, isn’t it?” Geralt said, handing him a slightly crumpled packet of tissues. Jaskier shrugged, taking one and blowing his nose. “Alright,” Geralt said, softly, taking Jaskier’s hand and interlacing their fingers.

They walked in silence for several minutes, close to each other, the back of Geralt’s hand brushing against Jaskier’s hip. The air was heavy and humid, clouds hung low over the naked trees, and Jaskier wished for spring, for sun, for warmth, wished to leave the city, this maze of concrete and glass, wished to find the quiet brook in the forest his mama took him to eons ago and weave crowns of buttercups, bright yellow and wet.

“She calls you Jaskier,” Geralt said at one point and Jaskier knew he was smiling even without looking.

“She always did, ever since I can remember,” Jaskier said.

“So it wasn’t Essi who helped you come up with this name.” It was more a statement than a question.

Jaskier sighed, ruffling his hair. “Yeah, it wasn’t Essi,” he admitted. “I’m sorry I said that when we met. It just feels less pathetic to say that I picked it because I liked the ring of it, rather than admit that I still cling to a pet name my mother gave me when I was little.”

“It’s not pathetic,” Geralt said, squeezing his hand. “It’s really sweet, actually. Why Jaskier, though?”

“When I was little I had very blonde hair,” Jaskier explained, smiling. “It grew darker with time, but when I was five or six it was still so blonde it was almost yellow. Żółciutkie jak jaskry,” he said, carefully pronouncing the Polish words.

Geralt squeezed his hand again, bringing it to his mouth, as if he knew that Jaskier was this close to crying again and needed reassurance. “I really hope your mum gets better soon,” he said. “Until then, I intend to keep my promise and take care of you, though,” he added, giving Jaskier a serious look. “So how about we stop at some nice cozy pub and have some spiked tea to warm you up, hm?”

Jaskier wanted to say that he wasn’t cold, but he was almost shaking, the damp cold bit to the bone at this time of the year. He sighed, pressing against Geralt’s side. Geralt let go of his hand and instead wrapped his arm around Jaskier’s waist, kissing the top of his head.

“Alright,” Jaskier said. “I suppose a cup of tea would do me good.”

So half an hour later they were sitting at a tiny table in a cozy little pub in the old town, sipping on tea with whiskey, and Jaskier could already feel his cheeks burning. Mama would say that someone was talking about him. Father would call it Polish nonsense.

They talked about nothing in particular, just some easy, comfortable small-talk, and Jaskier was beginning to relax a little bit, feel a little lighter, a little less sad. Then he noticed the woman glaring at him from across the room. Jaskier frowned, not understanding the scorching hatred in her gaze. Geralt’s eyes moved from Jaskier’s face to the woman at the bar and the way he clenched his jaws and looked away told Jaskier everything he needed to know.

He watched her come to their table in slow, deliberate stride of a hunting cat. The closer she got the more details he noticed — her perfectly controlled mass of black curls, her beautiful skin in a warm shade of light brown, her eyes the colour of his mama’s coat, and finally the scent, a heavy mixture of lilac and something tart that reminded Jaskier of a half-forgotten childhood dish, a creamy sauce with raisins and something else, a fruit that exploded on his tongue filling his mouth with thrilling tartness, this odd little Polish fruit, he had it a few times when they visited his great aunt in her little house at a great lake, he remembered the taste of it, the thick, almost fuzzy skin and the liquid flesh, even though he couldn’t recall the name of it.

“So this is what you replaced me with?” the woman asked. She spoke to Geralt, but her eyes were fixed on Jaskier’s face. She would be beautiful if it wasn’t for the disdainful grimace on her face.

“ _ This _ can hear you,” Jaskier said, enduring her glare, not looking down.

She smirked, but her eyes were still cold as ice. She seemed amused, but he knew she was furious. Had she hoped Jaskier would be intimidated by her? That he’d back away?

Geralt cleared his throat. “This is my ex-girlfriend, Yennefer,” he said, looking straight into his tea. “And this is—”

“I know who he is,” Yennefer interrupted. “You two seem to be the favourite topic of all the local teenagers.”

“How’s Istredd?” Geralt asked in a tone that was far too casual to hide the pain behind it.

“I don’t know, we haven’t spoken in weeks,” Yennefer replied, her eyes not leaving Jaskier’s face. “I’d ask how’s my best friend, but I already know,” she added and laughed in a way that was too cheery to hide the cold anger underneath. “Well, have a nice evening, boys. I have matters to attend to.”

Her gaze finally moved from Jaskier to a moderately good-looking guy at the bar. She left, swaying her hips, her heels clicking on the stone floor. Geralt still stared into his tea.

“You cheated on her with her best friend?” Jaskier asked, taking a sip of his drink.

Geralt let out a sigh, rubbing the base of his nose, a little thing he did every time he was frustrated. “I didn’t cheat,” he said firmly. “It was a month after we broke up. But yeah, I slept with her best friend once. It was a very shitty thing to do and I regret it, but I can’t turn back time.”

Jaskier nodded, drinking the rest of his tea before it grew completely cold. Geralt was silent for a while, turning his cup around. Then he pushed it away, looking into Jaskier’s face, his gaze very solemn.

“I never cheated on her,” he said. “I don’t sleep with other people when I’m dating someone. Please don’t think that I could—”

“I don’t mind, though,” Jaskier said. Geralt shook his head, knitting his brows together. “I mean, if you want to sleep with anyone else, it doesn’t bother me,” Jaskier said, shrugging. “As long as we’re honest about stuff like this and the sex is safe, it’s fine.”

Geralt dropped his gaze, biting his lip, the corners of his mouth tense. “Do you— I mean, is there someone that—?”

Jaskier chuckled, shaking his head. “No, there’s no one. And I’m not looking for anyone either. I’m just saying that the idea of you sleeping with other people doesn’t bother me. But we can keep our relationship monogamous, if that’s what you prefer.”

Geralt chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, before looking up, meeting his eyes. “I don’t know what I prefer. There’s a lot of things I don’t know about myself, still,” he said. “What I know is that right now I want no one but you.”

Jaskier knew that it wasn’t one hundred percent true, that deep down Geralt’s soul still yearned for that black-haired devil with eyes of pale lilac. But it didn’t matter, because consciously, Geralt meant what he said, he meant it with his heart, and it was more than enough, so Jaskier smiled, cupping Geralt’s face, already covered in sharp stubble though it was only seven in the evening, and he kissed his witcher who wanted no one but him, even if his soul yearned for a mass of black curls and the scent of lilac and gooseberry, that was the fruit the name of which he couldn’t remember before, gooseberry, such a strange name, such a strange plant, such a strange scent, so fitting for a woman with gaze and words sharp as thorns, capable of drawing blood.

Geralt’s arm wrapped around Jaskier’s waist, pulling him closer, the other hand landing on the nape of Jaskier’s neck, sliding into his hair that used to be yellow as buttercups, but now was the colour of sand at the bottom of a lake, straight as pine needles falling from the trees. Geralt held him close, held him as if he were something delicate, breakable. Geralt kissed him with gentle curiosity, as if he’d never kissed anyone like this, as if he wasn’t used to tenderness and was thrilled to discover it was a viable option.

Jaskier’s eyes were closed, but he didn’t need to look to know Yennefer was watching them, he felt the burning of her gaze trying to turn him into stone, into dust. She didn’t know Jaskier was immune to her deathly glares because he was a looking glass that people looked into and saw whatever they wanted to see, whatever they expected, but never what he truly was. She didn’t know that she couldn’t destroy him and if she tried, she’d only end up destroying herself, that poor she-devil, that broken-hearted angel that forgot how to be kind.

He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Geralt’s for a second.

“Let’s go home,” he said, drawing back, looking over Geralt’s shoulder straight at Yennefer who froze, mouth pursed, fingers clasped at the arms of the moderately good-looking man who was now kissing her neck. She stilled, petrified by her own gaze reflected in Jaskier’s eyes — the mixture of hatred, sadness, and profound grief that filled her to the brim. He saw her shudder and yelp, he saw the moderately good-looking man pull her closer to him, convinced it was his doing.

Jaskier looked away, standing up, breaking the spell that bound Yennefer to this place and that man, that allowed her to push him away and leave even before Geralt had time to put on his jacket.

She glanced at Jaskier on her way out, pausing with her hand on the door handle. There was a challenge in her eyes. She knew as well as he did that they were bound to collide. She thought she could survive that collision. She forgot that mirrors never stopped reflecting the truth, not even when they broke.


End file.
